


Why Not Try?

by PhilArd



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: Angst, M/M, Psychological Torture, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Winston is in bad shape, this was 14 pages long in google docs omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 09:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20423651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhilArd/pseuds/PhilArd
Summary: O'Brien is suffering from symptoms of thoughtcrime, and is pretty sure Winston Smith is to blame. He knows it has gone too far when he can barely carry out their lessons, and even more so when he questions their necessity altogether.





	Why Not Try?

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously don't own 1984, George Orwell does. 
> 
> And I am not George Orwell because he would never have written such an atrocity.

Thoughtcrime was truly a horrible thing. The Party taught that it could sneak up on anyone at anytime, but no matter the circumstances, it was purely madness. It was a disease that slowly consumed the victim’s mind without their knowing, and the only way to cure it was through hard conviction and strict punishment. If someone did not want to be cured, then they could not be.

O’Brien wanted to be cured. He was fairly certain that it was not thoughtcrime, at least not yet, for every disease has small symptoms that come before the main attack, and this was just a symptom. However, like any disease, symptoms left untreated eventually grew lethal. And yet, even with constant mental reminders that this was wrong and unnatural, and despite his conscious screaming at him in his skull to stop such useless thoughts, they persisted.

He saw Winston’s eyes everywhere. He had light blue eyes that sparked when he was excited, clouded over when he was in pain and darkened when he grew desperate. There was so much emotion in those eyes, more than anyone was allowed to show on their face and yet he managed to bear it without moving his lips. It was completely unlike any other patient O’Brien had treated, and he was not sure whether it was just proof of his condition or some sort of test from Big Brother himself.

Sometimes when he was at work in between his sessions with Winston, he would watch the workers scurry about and complete their duties without a sound. They all seemed enveloped in an aura of grey, giving off no happiness or sorrow, much like the graveyard statues of the past that had always looked neutral. He remembered things like this faintly from when he was a boy, but he tried not to. It seemed Winston was making him remember many of these things as of late, yet another symptom he had to rid himself of. It was easier said than done, though.

His patients would at times blame their dreams for their thoughtcrimes. They pleaded such thoughts were only in sleep, and were completely unmanageable no matter how hard they tried. They described them as horrible nightmares, and he had never believed them. He had never experienced such nightmares before, so it had to be lies to save them from pain. However, he now knew the feeling of dreaming something so bizarre and scandalous without any warning or control, and waking up in a cold sweat but with heat burning in your cheeks. They always involved Winston, and his soft eyes and the simple haircut that suited his light blond hair. He could sometimes still feel his heat where they touched hands or shoulders, talking like friends or even--

That was the worst symptom by far. O’Brien knew the dangers of the subconscious, and how dreams could show the deepest darkest thoughts in a man’s mind. He knew it was the worst sign of his oncoming illness, but he also knew that to be cured you had to want to be cured, and he didn’t think he wanted to cure this particular symptom. The pounding of his heart in those nights, his softness when Winston became a blubbering mess with the pain and his almost merciful behavior when it was obviously too much, proved it.

~

“How many fingers am I holding up?” The ultimate question of nearly every session as of late. Winston’s eyes darkened again, the panic setting in at the thought that no matter what he said, there would probably be punishment. O’Brien watched him count the fingers carefully, the only evidence he was thinking was the movement of his pupils.

“Four… there are four… don’t you see?” Those eyes moved to look directly at his in a silent plea to see what he saw, to succumb to his level of delusion. O’Brien met that gaze with the same external sternness he had shown for weeks now, but it was becoming difficult to feel the same way on the inside. 

“You’re wrong. You know better than that,” he reached for the dial, but the absolute agony on Winston’s face made him hesitate. He gave him another chance, a bad habit he had to break soon. “Come now, how many fingers?”

Winston’s arms were bound to the table, but he managed to lift his hand a bit and move his index finger in a sort of pointing motion. “Look… one, two, three, four. You’re hiding your thumb, there are only four.” O’Brien still waited a bit for him to continue and see the error in his ways, but when he said nothing more, he knew what had to be done.

“It is almost like you’re doing this on purpose, Winston. It really is simple,” he put his hand on the dial again, this time allowing his fingers to clamp down on the cold surface, “If the Party says there are five, then there are five. You have to believe that.” He twisted the dial, and in an instant Winston’s form shook with the electricity and his voice that had been nearly nonexistent moments ago managed to let out a strangled cry. O’Brien counted five seconds (possibly speeding up the last three numbers) before turning it off. Winston’s body immediately calmed, but his breaths came out ragged and uneven. “How many fingers, Winston?”

“Five..?” He did not miss the questioning tone he had, but for some reason he still nodded in approval and allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

“Yes, very good. You’re making progress.” It was supposed to be progress, but O’Brien still felt an uneasy feeling of sickness for the rest of the day at the realization that Winston was becoming less and less tolerant to the shocks, and the small light in his eyes was getting dimmer.

~

Three days later, O’Brien finds himself outside the city. Surrounding him are tall secluding trees, a ground soft with spring grass, and the chirping of birds unrestrained in nature. Everything here is the opposite of human society, but one thing remains constant; Winston is there. He’s standing just three feet away from him, looking out into the small forest for any signs of onlookers or police. Finding none, he turns to face O’Brien.

“It looks like we really are alone. Isn’t it strange?” O’Brien wants to say that it is absolutely terrifying, and defies everything The Party values. Here, they cannot be watched or protected, and that leaves them vulnerable and free to make mistakes and commit crimes.

Winston takes his hand though, and all is forgotten. “The only other time I’ve been here is with… well, it doesn’t matter anymore.” He knows what he was about to say.

“The girl, Julia, do you not think of her?”

“Why should I? She is not you.” The sunset peeking through the treetops lights up Winston’s blond hair, and even though at this moment he looks so young and warm he also has a very serious expression on his face. He leans in closer, to the point where O’Brien can feel his breath on his cheeks. “We could run away, you know. The Party will kill us eventually, whatever we do, so why not try..?”

O’Brien tries to answer, but his voice is caught in his throat. Soon it does not matter though, because Winston brushed his lips against his and made it impossible to speak even if he wanted to.

Waking up pulls him violently from the dream. O’Brien sat up faster than he thought possible in his age, and he clutched his shirt as some sort of security method. His breaths came out rough with the amount of emotions crowding in his chest, but he forced it to even out with the fear of the telescreen in the center of the wall. The last thing he needed was The Party suspecting him of thoughtcrime.

What he could not control however was the blush that refused to leave his face and the sweat that covered his trembling hands. He stuck them under the blankets away from the screen. He didn’t dare look into the face projected on it though, not wanting to give away any more emotion or give reason to question him. Instead, he lay back down and let out a sigh, trying to go back to sleep. He stayed awake for the rest of the night, eyes closed anyway for the telescreen.

~

“How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?” Here they are again the very next morning, doing the same routine as always. O’Brien expects Winston to look at him with defiant blue eyes and say the same nonsense as before, forcing O’Brien to punish him again and again until the session is over. This time is different though, as Winston’s eyes are looking at the ceiling with a sort of distant gaze. His skin is so pale, it almost matches the bed cloth. His bones stuck out of his body in all directions, and it looks painful against the hard mattress. All in all, he looks dead.

“Winston? How many fingers?” O’Brien comes closer and despite the question he asked, he isn’t showing Winston his hand. He is too busy trying to get in between Winston’s gaze and the ceiling, slight tremors of panic setting in when those eyes won’t look into his like they always have. He does not show it though, all too aware of the screens around them. It makes it more difficult to lean over the bed, but he tells himself it is worth it to see if the patient is still in this world.

“Winston, can you hear me? I know you can, there is no use pretending.” He adds the last part to look more stern. He gently shakes his shoulder, trying to get a response. His body is too easy to control, with no resistance against O’Brien’s grip. With the movement, his head lolls to the side, and his eyes finally meet his. O’Brien let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding through his nose, again trying to be silent and unsuspicious.

Winston’s chapped lips part, and O’Brien has to lean in to hear what he is saying. “...doing this…” His eyebrows knit together as he tries to understand.

“What’s that?”

“Why are… you doing this..?” Ah. 

“You need to be cured of your illness, Winston. It’s important that you realize your mistake before your time is up. The Party cannot let anyone go without showing them their flaws.” He had said this to so many different people over the years, but never had he said it with such minimal enthusiasm. His voice had come out wavering and small, like he was not even in control of his tongue. It had no heart to it, and that was probably because the light from Winston’s eyes was nearly gone, and is heart was more focused on that than anything else.

He managed to tear himself from the bedside and opened the door, coming face to face with the guard outside. “Bring some food in quickly, I’m about to lose him.” The guard did not question him, thank Big Brother for that. However, it took twenty damn minutes for the guard to return to the room, a bowl of sloshy soup in his hands. O’Brien had snatched it from him like he was the starving one, letting out a rushed “Thank you, comrade,” before nearly running to Winston’s side once more.

“Look Winston, eat.” He stupidly tried to hand the bowl to him, but Winston’s arms were still strapped to the bed. O’Brien undid the straps and tried again, but Winston made no move to sit up. Finally, he managed to prop him up against his left arm, set the bowl on Winston’s lap and fed him with his right hand. “There, see? We won’t let you die just yet.” The position was compromising, uncomfortable, and certainly not a dignified display of a prisoner and torturer relationship, but for the first time in his life since he could remember, that didn’t matter.

As they neared the end of the bowl, Winston’s words from his dream suddenly came to mind. They’ll kill us no matter what, so why not try? He knew then and there that the symptoms had evolved into fully fledged thoughtcrime. Seeing the bottom of the bowl made him realize that he had to go back to torturing Winston soon, that he wanted to do anything but that, and that running away didn’t sound like the worst alternative. He had no idea where they would go, or what they would do afterwards, but Winston was going to die if he stayed here. That meant those blue eyes would remain only in his imagination, that he would never feel those blond locks or see what a real smile looked like on his round face. 

It would not even be over, because he knew for a fact that Winston was never going to leave his mind. If he died now or in three weeks, he would remain in his dreams. The seed of doubt and treason had been planted, and there was no uprooting it. He was finished anyway, so again, why not try?

~

The soup burned his esophagus, the foreign feeling of warm food waking him up from his stupor a bit. Winston tried to savor the food, but it was hard to focus on anything other than the warmth of the arm supporting his back. He knew O’Brien was helping him, easing him from the pain he himself had inflicted if only for a while. Winston was grateful, in a strange sort of way.

He knew he should hate this man after everything he had done to him and the state he reduced him to, but he couldn’t connect everything that was The Party to O’Brien. It reminded him of something he heard a long time ago, perhaps from his mother before all of this chaos happened. “Hate the sin, not the sinner.” It made sense when you thought about it, especially when the sinner was the man beside him.

He could see him out of the corner of his eye, half crouched over the examination table to better support him. His dark hair was slicked back like always, giving him an aura of superiority and intelligence. Winston knew he was foolish for thinking he could have gotten away with thoughtcrime. He had known deep down that they always caught traitors, but it had been so thrilling to see O’Brien for the first time from across the room. He still remembered when their eyes had met during the Two Minutes of Hate, and the spark that had seemed to speak to him and let him know they could be friends. He had been so wrong, but only about O’Brien’s occupation. He still believed they were connected somehow, possibly deeper than friends, because such a thing could not exist in a world under The Party. Everyone was supposed to be friends, but separate at the same time. O’Brien was always with him, always in his mind and dreams and hopes for the future, so he was deeper than the superficial comrades that had surrounded Winston’s life, and he was different from the nameless guards and policemen that patrolled the Ministry of Love. 

Watching him focus on spooning the soup into his mouth was fascinating. His forest green eyes reminded him of the nature Julia had taken him to, but her face was not paired with the memory. O’Brien’s eyes were filled with his trademark intelligence and tiredness, and Winston wondered if he could ever look relaxed. Perhaps if he had seen the trees outside the city walls, then his face would hold a more free look. Winston thought it must look fantastic on him.  
He closed his eyes to picture it just for a moment, but O’Brien’s arm shook behind him instantly, as if to keep him from falling asleep. He opened his eyes again, and went back to daydreaming about being in the forest with his closest companion…

All of a sudden, he felt O’Brien move the bowl from his lap and slide his other arm under his knees. He automatically tried to help him lift him by curling into his side, even if his brain barely registered what exactly was happening. He could feel himself swaying with O’Brien’s steps, and something about it was incredibly comforting. He knew he was taking him somewhere, but where exactly, he didn’t care anymore. Wherever it was, the stern and determined look on O’Brien’s face told him it would be alright. He looked so sure of himself then, even if the occasional grey wisp in his hair and the sullen shadows around his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. 

The door opened, and he could hear him talking to the guard outside. Something about having to go outside, not dying… that sounded nice. The swaying came back, and he knew they were moving, but the slight breeze and the quickening of each step told him they were going faster. He wondered what the big hurry was, after all, he was told he would be here until he was cured, and two plus two still equals four in his mind. He looked at O’Brien’s face again, looking for answers, and found he looked more tense now, the shadows under his eyes almost darkened by his newfound stress. Winston wanted to say something, anything to break this tension, but his mouth couldn’t form the words. Going outside would be nice though, if that really was where they were going. Maybe they were even running away. How fantastic would that be..?

~

When Winston woke up, he could no longer feel O’Brien’s arms underneath him, nor was he swaying in the rhythm of his steps. He felt grounded, and the foreign feeling of soft grass still lined with morning dew brushed his fingers. Looking up, he squinted at the small rays of sun piercing through the ceiling of tree leaves. 

With a bit of difficulty, Winston managed to sit up in the grass, taking in the barren surroundings of endless forest. He knew he must have been dreaming, since he had seen such peaceful solitude only in sleep. He must be passed out on the torture bed with O’Brien watching over him until he woke up for real. That was the only explanation for this.

Still, it unnerved him a bit that O’Brien was not in his dream at all. Usually the man managed to make an entrance somewhere, but it looked like Winston was truly alone. It wasn’t until he heard the footsteps rustling in the grass and the occasional huff that he was able to calm down and turn towards the noise. Sure enough, O’Brien stepped into the clearing, a bit of leaves in his usually tidy hair, giving him a more free look. Winston liked it more this way.

“Where have you been?” His voice cracked a bit, odd for a dream. Usually he was the picture of health in his subconscious, the exact opposite of his real body.

O’Brien looked at him strangely, “That’s your first question? Not where we are, or how you got here, just where I have been?”

Winston shrugged, “I know we’re in the forest. I came here sometimes with Julia, but never this far. I just expected you to be here, so I waited.” 

O’Brien huffed again, and eased himself onto the grass in front of Winston, “Well you’re right about me being here, I did carry you after all.” He leaned his weight on his arm to prop himself comfortably, but winced and sat straight again. Winston noticed right away.

“You’re hurt. Was it carrying me?”

“No, it was… it’s nothing.” O’Brien looked distracted, his gaze settled on the space just next to Winston’s head rather than directly at him. His fingers twitched occasionally and, upon further inspection, Winston could see his collar was a bit crooked and his disheveled hair looked more messy than if he had just walked through the woods for a while.

“Let me see.”

“What? No, no, I said it’s nothing.”

“O’Brien.” At this, the other man snapped his eyes to look at Winston’s for a moment, then looked to the ground in a sort of shame.

“This is all wrong.”

“What is? Ah,” Winston put a hand on his forehead in exhaustion and dismay, “This isn’t like my usual dreams at all…” 

O’Brien looked back at him again, his face one of incredulous confusion, “A dream? This is no dream, but if it was, it would most certainly be a nightmare! We’re here because I carried you straight out of the Ministry, my shoulder is destroyed when a policeman got me with his truncheon, and now we’re in the middle of a secluded forest and I have no idea how far we can go before reaching civilization, which would no doubt be fatal after betraying The Party…”

O’Brien continued rambling, but Winston stopped listening when he got the main idea. O’Brien had escaped the Ministry of Love to save his life. This man, who was so set in his ways as to assist in brainwashing innocent men through days of torture as a career had just abandoned it all and put a permanent death sentence on his head to save him. Winston was honestly speechless, but he knew he had to say something before the tired man in front of him gave himself a heart attack with reminiscing of betrayal.

“Hey,”

“--What?”

“What made you do it?” He had to hear it from him.

O’Brien looked ashamed of himself then, but what he said could not have made Winston more confused, happy and proud all at once. “You were dying, and two plus two equals four--” a look of fear crossed his features before he corrected himself, “--sometimes, at least.” Good enough.

They were quiet then, Winston trying to take it all in and O’Brien still a bit shaken with what he had just admitted. Even though their silence was thick in the air, never once did Winston feel uncomfortable. This moment was better than any dream could have been, despite their awful appearance and Winston’s still fragile health. All the suffering he had endured had been worth it for this feeling of freedom and endless opportunity.

And, looking at the man in front of him, he knew he would always stay by his side. After all, they were intimates. 

~

They had been traveling through the woods for two days now, and while Winston still could not walk properly without grasping O’Brien’s shoulder every couple steps for support, the adrenaline coursing through his gradually healing body had yet to cease. The thrill of rebellion, of leaving it all behind and looking towards a hopeful future without the party filled Winston with indescribable courage. His heart felt like it would burst from the sheer joy of it all as he walked through the endless fields of green.

He couldn’t say the same for his companion though. As the morning hours waned into the evening each day, O’Brien had yet to betray the slightest bit of happiness at their escape. It was as though he regretted it entirely and knew he could not undo it now. His dark eyes burned into the grass in front of him with a pensive intensity, and his strong stride never slowed or tired. He hadn’t even said a word to Winston today, but the younger man tried to convince himself that the mere fact that they were together should be enough to satisfy him.

He did worry about other things, though. O’Brien had a right to look so regretful. Winston himself found it hard to truly comprehend what this all meant. They were free now, but what exactly did freedom feel like? All he knew was hiding from Big Brother’s eyes, but now they were truly escaping. There was no need to glance around the corners for suspicious gazes, no worries about thought police and backstabbing neighbors. Out here, there was nothing, and it was both liberating and terrifying. The latter feeling was still not strong enough to quench Winston’s optimism though, and he decided to try to spread that confidence to O’Brien.

As the sun began seeping under the hills, he stopped in his tracks and put a hand on O’Brien’s shoulder to stop his steps as well. “It’s getting late, and we’ve been walking all day. Surely we can afford some sleep now?”

O’Brien was silent for a moment, eyes still trailed on his shoes. When he did turn to face Winston, the look in his stone cold eyes sent a chill through Winston’s spine. They were completely unreadable, which was unsurprising for a former interrogator for the party, but it still shook Winston to his core when he knew how emotional they could be. “Yes, I suppose we should rest. Wouldn’t want to fall behind tomorrow, so we will have to be in the best condition possible.” The words came out robotically. It was getting harder to remain hopeful.

“We should look for a tree, or some shelter to cover us, just in case…” in case someone comes looking for us. He didn’t want to say the last part out loud, though. Not too far from them was a patch of trees and shrubs, just a small isolated chunk of the forest, but it would do. The pair stumbled towards it, and collapsed simultaneously on the soft grass behind the bushes.

Twilight was beginning to settle, and the silence that came with it was crushing Winston’s spirit. He wanted so much to hear O’Brien’s intelligent voice, or ask him what he thought they should do next and how this all worked out in the first place, but the stoic nature he portrayed prevented him from saying just about anything. Instead, he rolled onto his side to face the other man, who was on his back watching the leafy blanket above them rustle in the slight breeze.

“I’m sorry Winston.”

In truth, the sudden apology made him jump in surprise, but he hoped O’Brien didn’t notice it. “What for?” 

“I’m encouraging your disease, and in doing so I have doomed us both. I was supposed to cure you, but now I fear I cannot even cure myself.” His voice dropped to a whisper by the last word. Winston turned to get a better look at O’Brien’s tired face. The regret he had observed in his expression all day had grown tenfold, making him seem even more tired than he usually did. The man who had stood grounded to his ideals, trying to anchor Winston to the world with him, now seemed as lost as the person he had been trying to save. Winston knew that this time it was his turn to be the steady one, but he wasn’t sure how to go about doing it, not wanting to push anything onto O’Brien and not wanting to further upset him either. He settled on taking up a gentle face and tone to lighten the message.

“What if there was nothing to cure in the first place? I’m not saying one of us was ever more right than the other, but perhaps your teachings applied to the world Big Brother made, and mine apply to this world instead. You taught me how the party works, and now it’s time for me to show you how nature works.” His intention had been to let O’Brien still hold on to the fact that he had been right as a party member, one of the best there was, but that had apparently not clicked with the other man as well as he thought, for he was soon sitting up and glaring at him with nothing but contempt.

“Just listen to you, babbling about worlds and nature. That is the kind of nonsense I was supposed to expel in you, and now it’s worse than ever before. There is only one world, and it consists of what Big Brother tells us it does! There are no rules of nature, or a seperate philosophy that pertains to outside Big Brother’s jurisdiction because he is everywhere and everything. You’re sick, so sick, and I was-- am-- supposed to heal you, and yet under my watch we have ended up in the wilderness with you rambling like a true madman.”

Winston was hurt, but he tried not to show it on his face. “I don’t understand why you’re so angry with me when you’re the one who escaped with me in tow! I could barely stand, let alone plan an operation to leave. It was your decision, and you chose this.”

O’Brien spun around in the grass to fully face Winston, his fingers gripping his pants at the knees until his knuckles turned white. “It was my decision, but at the same time, it was as if I was someone else while it happened. I was acting in a completely irrational way, and now it will cost us both of our mental health and, eventually, our lives. I was wrong to leave the Ministry. The Party, Big Brother… that is the world we are supposed to live in. I was taught this, the people around me were taught this, and it is what I was trying to teach you.”

“And you did!” Now it was Winston’s turn to straighten up, his movements shakier than O’Brien’s had been but still managing to make it on his knees. “You taught me the inner workings of the party, and I suffered under your hand until I learned it exactly as you intended to teach it. You did your job, and eventually you left it with me. That is human nature, to explore other possibilities and brighter futures. It is what I was looking for for so long, Julia too--”

“Don’t talk about her!” O’Brien slammed his fist into the dirt, his voice echoing in the trees and causing a few birds to fly away. Winston was frozen in place. The man in front of him looked red in the face and more worked up than he had ever seen him before. “There is no need to speak of that woman. You betrayed her in room 101, remember? You denied having true affection for her when I worked with you. You looked me in the eyes and promised you resented your affair, so unless you were lying to me, I won’t have you speaking of her, do you understand?!” Winston didn’t speak or move to give an answer. The two of them stared at each other for a while, the only sound between them was O’Brien’s labored breathing and the crickets coming out as the sun disappeared behind the hills, painting the sky a brilliant pink that was rapidly fading into a blackish blue. At first when Winston had heard O’Brien’s outburst, he had cowered back a bit, reminded of how harsh he could be in their interrogations and feeling like he had said something horrible. As their standstill stretched on though, he realized that the anger in O’Brien’s expression had given away a bit to show a strange sort of fear and hesitation, and it gave Winston the courage to speak again.

“O’Brien, I would never lie to you. What I had with Ju… her, wasn’t true. It was just physical,” Some foreign emotion flashed in his friend’s eyes, and Winston rushed to backtrack, “It was just human nature.”

Wrong answer. “Human nature, that blasted human nature of yours! It made you betray The Party and your superior, it nearly cost you your life, and it has taken over my sanity as well. When I saw you half dead and completely unresponsive in the Ministry of Love, it drove me to carry you out and run for our lives in an attempt to save you because dying while trying to keep you with me was better than losing you to my own torture. Damn human nature! It has made me weak and unsure, and it has made me love you more than I have ever loved another person!” He ran a shaky hand over his hair, sliding a few stray strands back in place and sighed, “I saved you not because I believe in another world or because I wanted to escape the party. I did it because I love you.”

In the blink of an eye, Winston had his hand over O’Brien’s sweaty one and his lips pressed to his in a kiss. It felt absolutely nothing like the desperate, almost animalistic kisses he had shared with Julia. O’Brien’s complete surprise and uncertain reciprocation made it gentle and soft, a million times more genuine than it had been with her.

When they separated, Winston rested his forehead against O’Brien’s and whispered, “I love you too, no matter what you think or do. I have since we first held eye contact in that dreaded hate session, and I would have kept loving you even if you had killed me. I can’t explain it,” he laughed nervously at himself, knowing he sounded crazy, but soon O’Brien joined him.

“You sound like a masochist, and I may be sick knowing how happy I am to hear those words from you.”

“What do you mean ‘may’ be sick? Two minutes ago you were ranting about how we are both sick people never to be cured of our thoughtcrimes.”

“What can I say? You drive me to contradiction,” He almost sounded remorseful again, so it was to Winston’s surprise that he initiated the next kiss, more sure of himself this time. With such emotion rising in him, he was more certain than ever that they were free now, and he was prepared for whatever awaits them in the future, so long as they stayed together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this... thing... that I wrote a whole year ago. As always, feedback is always welcome!
> 
> I think it's really fun to write fics based on classic literature, especially knowing how many people are familiar with it. Basically I'm a scorn upon English literature, someone should stop me so great authors can stop flipping in their graves with disgust.


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